


Concatenation

by idler



Category: Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-11
Updated: 2013-11-11
Packaged: 2018-01-01 05:05:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1040678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idler/pseuds/idler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1810, somewhere in the Atlantic.</p>
<p>A good man may leave a legacy far greater than he might imagine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Concatenation

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [C is for Cat](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1172807) by [ioanite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ioanite/pseuds/ioanite). 



> Book canon, set sometime during the events of _Ship of the Line_
> 
> Originally posted July 4, 2011.

The din was incredible. Hammering, sawing, the clank of the chain pumps, the shouts of Gerard as he directed the repairs to _Sutherland_ ’s damaged rigging. 

There was never a more trying time in a first lieutenant’s life than the hours immediately following an engagement, even as brief as this had been. He needed to be everywhere at once…from the top of the mainmast to the depths of the hold. Everyone from the carpenter to the lowliest midshipman tugged at his sleeve, desperate for his attention or orders. Truth be told, however, William Bush, First Lieutenant of the _Sutherland_ , was a happy man. Hornblower was ensconced in his cabin—as a captain should rightly be—occupied with writing his report to the admiralty, and his absence from the deck was a thing in which Bush took great pride, knowing that it was a reflection of Hornblower’s trust and confidence, a thing which was never expressed in words or articulated even in the privacy of Bush’s heart. But he knew it, nonetheless, and it pleased him.

The noise ceased for a moment, as a lull in the carpenter’s activities coincided with Gerard finally—finally—pausing to catch his breath. In that rare lacunae of silence, a familiar voice rang out. 

“Polwheal!” it roared, “would you please come in here and deal with this pest!” 

Some minutes later, Polwheal emerged from the captain’s cabin carrying a hissing bundle of fur that writhed and twisted in a futile attempt to escape the iron grip on the nape of its neck. Bush could hear snatches of a stream of invective as the cat struggled angrily in the steward’s grasp. “...miserable wretch……better to heave you over the side and let the sharks have at you…hair everywhere, and me tryin’ to keep it out of the captain’s dinner…brush his best coat, an’ the next minute… ” 

This was intolerable. Furious, Bush rounded on the muttering steward. “Damn you, Polwheal….if one hair of that creature comes to harm I’ll have your liver.”

Polwheal quailed under the force of Bush’s wrath, and hastened to explain. “Oh, not to worry, sir. Boney, here, has his uses….” He put the squirming cat down and shooed it toward the aft hatchway. “Off with you, then, and catch you some of them damn’d rats….though some are bigger’n you.” He turned back to his first lieutenant. “Better that the creature goes below an’ does its duty and doesn’t create a damned nuisance of itself.”

Bush eyed him sternly. “Rather like a steward, I should think.”

Polwheal stared blankly for a moment until the meaning of Bush’s words sank in. “Er…yes sir.” He scurried off, far more gratefully than even the cat had done.

*********

Midshipman Thomas Vincent stood in the gathering darkness, pleased to be keeping the first watch. All in all, Sutherland’s damage had been extremely light, and had been put to rights hours before. He could hear faint snatches of laughter and raucous conversation emanating from the wardroom as Sutherland’s officers enjoyed a well-earned respite from their labors. Polwheal had prepared a ragout from one of the wardroom’s diminishing stock of chickens, cleverly disguising the toughness of its advanced age. That, several bottles of rough ship’s wine and one flask of fine brandy Gerard had produced from somewhere, and the relief that followed survival served to increase the wardroom’s usual reserved conviviality to a truly extraordinary pitch.

Vincent, though, was quite content to stand in the quiet coolness of the quarterdeck, away from the press of others beset by too much food and an excess of spirits. Not that he had any objection to either: it was simply that the opportunity for solitude and reflection was far more precious. Particularly now, now that he felt no longer one of the confused muddle of midshipmen inhabiting Sutherland’s depths. He had at last risen from the pack, and found his agile and retentive mind well suited to signals. He had thus found himself on the quarterdeck in the midst of superior officers more often than not, and was affording himself full well of the opportunity to watch and learn, and for the first time allowing himself to actually believe in the eventual possibility of promotion.

Vincent smiled as his ear caught the sound of heavy footsteps, easily recognized by any nervous midshipman who wanted to remain in the first lieutenant’s good graces. Bush terrified him no more, but still would never leave him to his own devices for too long, and could be counted upon to take a turn around the deck to reassure himself that all was in proper order. 

Vincent delivered his report, brief as it was. Surprisingly, Bush found no fault and simply nodded. Even more astonishing, instead of continuing his rounds, he leaned against the rail as if enjoying the freshness of the night air, and the quiet broken only by the sounds of the sea and the wind in the rigging. “Your work was well done today, Mr. Vincent.” He stood quietly for a few moments looking out into the darkness, then ran an expert glance toward the moonlit sky. “Fine night. We’ll have put some leagues behind us, come morning.” 

Vincent realized that, for the first time, Bush was treating him almost as a fellow lieutenant, perhaps himself anticipating the day a promotion might come to pass. It occurred to him—a fairly alarming thought indeed—that the First might be expecting some form of idle conversation. Vincent gulped and began, greatly daring…in for a penny, in for a pound. “Er…begging your pardon, sir, but may I ask you a question?” Bush nodded, thus Vincent continued, though wondering all the while whether he had overstepped his bounds. “I…well … _we_ were talking, sir…. We were surprised, maybe. We wouldn’t have figured on you being partial to cats.”

Bush continued to gaze into the distance for a space, as if considering the question. “And I am surely not, Mr. Vincent.”

“Then why….” Vincent frowned, puzzled. “Why did you care about Boney?”

“Well, Mr. Vincent, it…” he paused, as if sorting carefully through his thoughts. “It was not the cat I was thinking of.” Bush turned, then, and Vincent caught the heady scent of brandy. Perhaps it was that….that, and perhaps sheer fatigue that was prompting the First’s uncharacteristic garrulousness, never mind the slight slurring of his words. 

“You’ll be sitting for your lieutenant’s examination …and there are things you need to know. Not as a junior lieutenant, maybe, but you’ll need to know ‘em soon enough. I have served with many a captain: some good, some bad, some hard drivers, some slack. But they all need something from you…though the best ones will never ask for it.”

He gestured vaguely toward the stern cabin. “Captain Hornblower, there…he...” Bush faltered, as if groping for a way to express thoughts he would never ordinarily put into words. “He’s the best of ‘em, though he’d not believe it. He keeps everything inside, an’ it eats at him. No doubt he’s in there right now, thinkin’ he ought to have done this or that differently—better, somehow—today, not that anyone could. But he’s too fine a captain—and too fine a _man_ , Mr. Vincent—to be like some others. Some might take their mind off themselves by abusing their juniors, or the men, or turn to drink, or develop a taste for flogging, or…well, or worse…” Bush flushed slightly. “That damned cat gives him something to work his temper on. He can shout at it all he likes, an’ that cat won’t care a whit, and the captain won’t hate himself for it after. So it’s up to me to see to it that the miserable fleabag comes to no harm.”

“Close your mouth, Mr. Vincent.” Bush fixed him with an intense blue stare, causing him to realize that he had been goggling in witless astonishment at his first lieutenant. “I’ll not be saying this again. But remember it well, young sir, because someday—if you’re as fortunate as I—you’ll serve a captain who needs you.” With that, Bush turned away and headed forr’d, leaving him alone with his thoughts once more.

It was not long after that Hornblower himself emerged from his cabin. Vincent moved closer to the binnacle, allowing his captain the freedom of the windward side. As he did so, he could not help but notice that Hornblower was idly picking something from his sleeve. Cat hairs, no doubt.

“Something amuses you, Mr. Vincent?”

Vincent fought down his grin with an effort. “No, sir,” he replied crisply, schooling his face to a more proper stillness. 

As Hornblower began his usual pace, Vincent’s face softened back into a slight smile as he stood in the darkness, watching this captain of his and thinking of the gruff first lieutenant who looked after him, and who had thought to prepare him to do the same. He imagined an sturdy chain, stretching far into the past and endlessly into the future. He had only to hope that, God willing, he would someday find himself to be an enduring and steadfast link.


End file.
